


The Hollow Man

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actually really sad, Angst, Depressing, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Hurt, M/M, Melancholy, One-Sided Perception, Sad, Third-Person Stream of Consciousness (Sherlock), Unrequited Love, resignation, takes place during His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock says, “John, there’s something…” and he trails off, because where does he go from there? His body is responding automatically to his increase in adrenaline. His body is trying to save him, is trying to force a confession out of him to save his life. Sherlock understands, briefly, what his body is doing to him, why it is betraying him, even as his mouth keeps moving. It feels as though he is going to die, and his thoughts race faster than he can think them, and his hands tremble at his sides, and his heart throbs against his ribcage.</p><p>John looks back to him, and looks into his eyes, even as Sherlock stays focused on the ground, keeps his eyes fixed there, because the ground cannot see through him and the ground cannot understand and the ground cannot kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow Man

“Actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

Sherlock can think of dozens of things to say. He glances at Mary, who is respectfully averting her eyes; she has landed on staring at Mycroft’s shoes, a small furrow between her eyes. He ignores his brother’s penetrating stare and turns his attention back to John.

A dozen things to say, all floating through his head at the same time. He can see the words drifting in front of his eyes, lining themselves up along John’s shoulders, wrapping around his wrists, skating across his forehead. He glances down at the ground, but the words slide over the tips of John’s shoes. Sherlock frowns at them, his brows drawing together.

He opens his mouth, just for a second, then shuts it again. He could say, _“I love you.”_ He could say, _“I’ve always loved you.”_ He could say, _“I will never stop loving you.”_ He could tell John how good of a match he thinks Mary is for him, and how much he hates that. He could tell him how he kisses Mary on the cheek, how he hugs her, how he smiles at her, but, when he looks at her, his stomach climbs into his throat and he wants to punch a wall.

He wants to tell John that he is _incredible_. He wants to tell him that he is brilliant, and not just in the sense that he is amazing; he is genuinely brilliant, emitting his own light like a small sun. He wants to tell him that he orbits him, a dark moon caught in the sun’s center of gravity. He wants to tell him that, every time John looks at Mary, he wants to tear his heart out through his chest and throw it in the fireplace. He wants to tell him how he feels as though he is a puddle of kerosene, and John is a lit match.

The words skim over John in Sherlock’s eyes. _Loves his wife_ , the words read, floating around John’s head. _Born in Aldershot. Trustworthy. Loyal to a fault._ Sherlock meets John’s eyes, briefly. He blinks the words away and drops his gaze down to the ground.

“No, neither can I,” Sherlock lies, deciding the best course of action is to admit nothing, nothing at all, and keep the words to himself. He looks back up at John, but John is looking away, his forehead creased as he frowns at the ground.

“The game,” John says, his eyes flicking back up to meet Sherlock’s, “is over.”

“The game is never over, John,” Sherlock says immediately, and he suddenly _needs_ John to believe that. He _needs_ John to believe that this game - this game, the one they have been playing for years, since the day they met - will never end. He needs John to keep up his end of the game, even as Sherlock goes off on a mission that is supposed to last for six months. John thinks Sherlock will come back at the end of the six months; Sherlock knows better. He knows that, when Mycroft said the trip would prove fatal for him, he was not exaggerating. There is no way he will come back from this alive, and so he needs John to believe that the game is never going to be over. He needs the game to continue, because John needs the game to continue.

John just keeps staring at Sherlock, waiting for him to continue. Waiting for him to explain himself. Sherlock realizes, in that moment, that he talks a _lot_ , but he says very little. Especially to John. Especially lately, as he has been preparing for this very moment, his last moment with John. He has notes scrawled in his pocket on what to say, but he notices now that those are just words. All they are is words that fell from his brain onto paper. He remembers how much John loved his best man speech, the one he had to come up with on the spot.

He wonders, briefly, what John would say if he were to confess everything right now. If he were to tell John that he has closed himself off from other people since he was young, and, yet, John somehow wormed his way under his skin and made himself at home there. John, with his ridiculous face and his clever thoughts and the way he dies for Sherlock, over and over and _over_ again, has no idea. He has no clue, and Sherlock wonders, just for a second, what John would say if he knew.

He dismisses the idea quickly, and stops himself from glancing at Mary.

Sherlock looks over to the grass beyond John’s head and blinks away the words _Loves you_. Because John may love him - they may be brothers in arms, kindred spirits, the same soul split into two bodies - but John is a husband. John is a father. John is everything he has always wanted to be, and Sherlock wants him to have that. For himself, selfishly, he wants to confess. He wants to grab John’s face and kiss him until their lips bleed. He wants it so badly that he _aches_ with it. His skin feels like it is covered in bruises, a physical manifestation of his unending _agony_. His heart races, his veins pulsing too quickly with blood, and his hearing is filled with its roar, just for a moment. He blinks again, and takes a breath, and looks back to John.

John is still staring at him, and Sherlock’s hands tremble. He rarely has such little control over his body, but John has always managed to bring out the absolute worst in him. John is still staring at him, and Sherlock wants to vomit on their shoes. John is _still staring_ at him, and Sherlock reads the words that fly in front of his eyes, too quickly to be understood. _Sad. Grieving. Loving. Love love love_ and Sherlock blinks the words away again. His next inhale shakes, and he wants to tear his hair out. He wants to make a thousand confessions. He wants to take the words he sees on John and whisper them into his skin. He wants to set himself on fire, if only to feel something other than _this_ , this all-consuming, unnameable _something_ that exists only for John.

“But there may be some new players now,” Sherlock finishes, giving John what John was seeking. John, to his credit, does not do so much as blink. “It’s okay. The east wind takes us all in the end.”

He knows John will ask what the east wind is, which is why he said it. He wants to tell John the truth: that he, John Watson, is the east wind. He, the one fixed point in a changing age, has come for Sherlock, has claimed him and taken him and does not even have the decency to _use_ him, now that he has been stolen.

“What’s that?” John asks, because _of course_ John would ask. That is what John _does_. Sherlock hesitates - a thing which he rarely does, but which he finds himself doing, in this moment, regardless of what he _usually_ does. He thinks, for a second, that this is the time. He can tell the truth.

He does not.

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids,” Sherlock says, eventually. “The east wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.” He sniffs. He looks at John. “It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth.”

Sherlock wants to say, _“You are the east wind.”_ He wants to say that he has been found unworthy of John, and he realizes this, and he understands that he is going to be plucked from the Earth for this sin.

He does not.

“That was generally _me_ ,” Sherlock says instead. He smiles, just a bit, briefly, to show John he can laugh, he can joke, he is just messing around. John takes it.

“Nice.”

“He was a rubbish big brother.” Sherlock knows John does not agree, that he actually likes Mycroft. He would never admit it, but he does love his brother. However, this is a common ground for them; their distance from other people, people who are not them, people who are not Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Sherlock’s hands still shake at his sides, and the insides of his wrists throb with his speeding pulse.

John continues to talk, and Sherlock answers, but they are only speaking. They are not _saying_ anything, not really. Small talk, things they have already discussed - where he is going, for what, for how long. John clears his throat.

“So what about you, then?” John says. He is looking down, looking away from Sherlock. Sherlock looks away out of respect. ”Where are you actually going now?” John asks, and who is Sherlock to say that he is going straight to hell?

“Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe,” Sherlock lies, and John does not rise to it. He does not accept the lie, and instead stares straight at Sherlock, as though his eyes can see into his mind.

“For how long?” John asks, and Sherlock finds that he cannot meet John’s eyes. He cannot lie again; he cannot look into John’s eyes and say he will be back for him.

“Six months, my brother estimates,” Sherlock lies. John sees through him, because, while Sherlock may see through everything and everyone, John has always been able to see through him. “He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?” John asks, and Sherlock cannot bear to look at his face any longer. He gets the strangest sensation that he is staring into the sun, and he has to look away. He wants to say, _“And then I will come back for you.”_ He wants to say, _“And then I will come home.”_ He cannot. He cannot say any of the things he wants to say, and that is a first for Sherlock Holmes. His eyes flicker to John’s face, then away again. His pulse races, and he feels dizzy with it.

“Who knows?” Sherlock says, because it is easy to say, _“Who knows?”_ It is easier to say that than it is to say, _“I don’t know.”_ It is easier to say, _“Who knows?”_ than it is to say, _“There is no 'and then what,' John.”_

John turns around, looks over his shoulder, looks out over the airfield, and Sherlock finds that he cannot look away. Where he just wanted to look at everything except John, now he can look at nothing else. John draws his attention like the opposite end of a magnet, like a moth to a flame, which is what they have always been to each other. Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat, and he is overcome in the next beat of his heart. He _must_ make his confession; his knees are weak, and he _must_ confess, or else he will die with this. Not only will he die with the knowledge, but he will die _because_ of this. It _will_ kill him. His heart will pound too fast, too hard, and will throw itself out of his mouth and onto the cold ground between them. His stomach seizes, and, for a moment, he imagines confessing everything to John.

In that moment, John looks back to him, and Sherlock looks down, too quickly, his expression filled with guilt. He knows John sees through him, because that is what John _does_ , and, perhaps, by hiding his eyes, he may save John from the knowledge he is burdened with. John does not have to bear the weight that is permanently settled on Sherlock’s shoulders; John is light, free, and Sherlock is Atlas, pressed flat against the Earth, trapped for the rest of eternity with the knowledge that he is in love with John, and that John does not love him in return.

John looks away again, peers over his shoulder a second time, and Sherlock’s mouth moves faster than his brain. It tends to do that, and he is sure John understands. Sherlock says, “John, there’s something…” and he trails off, because where does he _go_ from there? His body is responding automatically to his increase in adrenaline. His body is trying to _save_ him, is trying to force a confession out of him to save his life. Sherlock understands, briefly, what his body is doing to him, why it is betraying him, even as his mouth keeps moving. It feels as though he is going to die, and his thoughts race faster than he can think them, and his hands tremble at his sides, and his heart throbs against his ribcage.

John looks back to him, and looks into his eyes, even as Sherlock stays focused on the ground, keeps his eyes fixed _there_ , because the ground cannot see through him and the ground cannot understand and the ground cannot kill him.

“...I should say;” Sherlock continues. “I-I’ve _meant_ to say,” he stutters, and is that not a first for him, “ _always_ , and then never have.” Sherlock looks off, just for a second, just long enough for him to realize he is about to crash and burn, like a train derailing, like a plane falling from the sky, like a man in love with the sun. “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again,” Sherlock says, and his eyes flicker down once, then up to John’s face as he realizes he has said too much, but John does not react. John is trained not to react, and John is greater than he is ever given credit for being. “I might as well say it now.” Sherlock looks down, looks at John’s nose, his lips, his chin, his neck, his chest; he takes John in, and John continues to stare at his face. Sherlock’s lips have gone dry, and he can feel his breath puffing over them, because this is _it_ , this is what he has wanted to do for _years_. This is the moment his entire life has been leading to, and his hands are still shaking and still his palms sweat, and his stomach may just burst and kill him, but this is the knot at the end of the rope. Sherlock has the words on the tip of his tongue; he can _taste_ them there, and they wait to be said. The words fly into his vision, covering John’s face. Those words, over and over again, the truth Sherlock has never been able to escape: _I love you._

And, suddenly, Sherlock comes back to reality. The floating weightlessness of relief that he experienced for an immeasurably small amount of time is stolen from him once again, and the shackles of lead that bind his wrists and ankles to the Earth give a mighty tug, and he is back on solid ground again. He realizes, in the next beat, that he cannot confess, he cannot give voice to the words that dance in his mouth and in his peripherals, because he _cannot_.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, and he says, “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

John _laughs_ , looking off and _laughing_ at the words that come out of Sherlock’s mouth, and it takes Sherlock a moment to even process the false confession he has given in the place of the words he aches to say, the words that will forever describe him until the day he dies, which is projected to be in the next six months, and he will die for John, and this is how he should go. This is the way the world ends, he knows. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

And, in that moment, Sherlock smiles. Because John is free. John is not burdened with the weight of his confession; John is not weighed down by the thousand futures that could have been as Sherlock is. John will live a life without Sherlock, will raise his daughter and his children after her, will love Mary with his whole heart, and will die an old man. Sherlock could not want any more for him, and, though he is a selfish man at heart, he realizes that there is no way to save him now. John does not have to live with the knowledge that Sherlock loves him. He is free to believe Sherlock loves nothing, that he appreciates John, that they are best friends and nothing more. It will make Sherlock’s death all the easier for John, and this is the last thing Sherlock can give him. In his mind’s eye, in that part of his imagination that he smothers, he holds it out to John, his bloody, beating heart cupped in his hands, and John takes it. He blinks the image away, and he smiles, and John smiles, and Sherlock is going to die.

“It’s not,” John says, still laughing, still free, and Sherlock envies him. Sherlock shrugs, and John smiles still.

“It was worth a try,” Sherlock says, showing John he can joke, showing John that it will all be alright, that he will be back. _“And then what?”_ , John had asked. _“And then everything,”_ Sherlock wants to answer.

“We’re not naming our daughter after you,” John says, quietly, looking off, still smiling. Sherlock understands. He wants to let go, too. He wants to let go of the pain that laces through his mind behind his left eyeball at the words _“we”_ and _“our daughter”_. He wants to let go of it all, release himself from the shackles and float away into nothingness.

“I think it could work,” Sherlock forces out, his voice barely cracking. John laughs, a funny, almost-humorless exhale of his breath, and looks back at Sherlock, and they see, really _see_ , each other for the last time. Sherlock smiles horribly, a quick quirk up of one corner of his mouth, and he looks away, because he cannot bear to see John one last time. John continues to stare, as though he knows he will never see Sherlock again.

Sherlock is, briefly, torn. He wants to embrace John. He wants to take John into his arms and never release him. He wants John to climb under his skin and live in his body with him, and still it would not be close enough, because Sherlock is basically itching out of his skin just to be closer to him as it is. He knows, however, that, like a marathoner who pauses halfway through the race, if he were to embrace John now, he would never let go. He would never leave, and John deserves this freedom, Sherlock’s last gift. His chest throbs, and his throat is thick, but he cannot swallow, for his mouth is dry and his lips are cracked and his breath is too quick.

He extends a hand to John, in the end, because that is all he can manage. That is all he can allow himself, and he hopes to death that John understands. John understands. John _always_ understands.

“To the very best of times, John,” Sherlock says, and John stares at his hand. He stares at his hand, then stares at his face, then stares at his hand again, as though this is the period at the end of their sentence, as though this is the very last press of the key against the paper that tells the story that is them. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a story unlike any other, a story that will never be told again. Sherlock wishes, briefly, that he could burn the papers, then dismisses the wish. He would not trade John for _anything_ , and he would never change any decision he has ever made, just in case it might mean he would not have met John.

In the end, John stares at his face for a second too long, enough that Sherlock almost bursts into flames with it, almost combusts right there on the spot like an ant under a heated magnifying glass. In the end, John grips his hand, and the press of their skin together is almost more than Sherlock can bear. In these last moments, it is almost too much, and, yet, it will never be enough. John was more than enough, but Sherlock always needs _more_ , always searches it out. He hopes that John cannot feel how his hands shake, how his palms sweat, how his fingers are freezing cold to the touch. He hopes John does not realize the grip of a dead man. John, of course, realizes, and they do not shake hands, but merely stand there, holding onto each other like lifelines, as they have always done.

Sherlock shakes John’s hand, just once, and lets him go. He lets go of everything when he lets go of John. He lets go of his life, and resigns himself to the death that awaits him in the East; he lets go of his past, and everything that has happened to him up until this point; he lets go of his present, for if he did not release John at that moment, he never would; he lets go of his future, his life with John, and anything he could have hoped to experience. Sherlock steps away from John, because he cannot bear it another second. His skin crawls, and he turns away, and he pulls his glove back on. He does not look at John again, though he can feel John’s stare burning into the back of his head. Sherlock’s hands shake, and he almost struggles to get his glove on, struggles to get his fingers into the right slots, but he succeeds, because he has to. He has to get out of there, because he is on _fire_ and John is too close and John cannot get burned, because, otherwise, what has this all been _for_?

Sherlock does not turn around. His legs are weak, and his head weighs a thousand pounds, and his shackles and weights drag behind him, but he does not turn around. He knows when John’s eyes have fallen off of him, and nobody else dare look at him, not while John is still there. John’s eyes are the last ones to see Sherlock as he steps up the stairs and onto the plane.

Sherlock takes a seat on the plane and does not look out the window. He feels as though there is no circulation in his legs below his knees, and his hands shake where he places them against his thighs. His palms quickly heat up the area of his pants they are pressed against, and his skin is warmed underneath, and his head falls down to press against his kneecaps. His body folds in on itself, his irons tangling together, invisible chains clinking against each other, and he lets out a shuddering breath. His pulse races, blood roaring in his ears, and he leaves John Watson, and everything John Watson stood for, and everything John Watson is, and everything John Watson could have been, behind with himself.

**Author's Note:**

> The title and a couple of the lines are shamelessly paraphrased (read: ripped off and reworded) from T.S. Eliot's poem, 'The Hollow Men'.
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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